


Lucky Day

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bickering, Community: vacationthon, M/M, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tries to sneak away on vacation by himself. Sherlock is not pleased. Let the chase begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annawhite16](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=annawhite16).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC. This was written for entertainment, not profit.

"Welcome aboard, sir!"

 

John nods at the flight attendant and makes his way down the gestured aisle, keeping an eye out for his seat.

34A is a window seat, unfortunately. He settles himself in and holds out hope that the aisle seat will remain vacant-- after all, this is a domestic flight scheduled during a non-peak period. 

 

He reaches for his phone. No new messages. Sherlock's still mad, then.

 

John sighs. The anger is not misplaced. 

 

Ditching one's flatmate with minimal notice in order to visit one's sister was a bit not good. Particularly when one is not actually going to visit his sister, and said flatmate only happens to be the most perceptive human being alive (let alone that close friend who knows all of one's tells.)

 

He'd been trapped in a no-win scenario, really. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Well and truly buggered.  

Sherlock would have insisted upon accompanying him if John had simply told him the truth-- he wanted a vacation. And well, that would have defeated the purpose for one entirely.

 

See, it's not as if John could have brought himself to reveal the real reason he's taking a breather away from London in general and Sherlock in specific:  _Oh, I happen to be in love with you and I can't get you out of my head and my desire's driving me bonkers. Going to take a holiday now to get these feelings under control so as to not ruin our friendship, see you in a week!_

 

That wouldn't have gone over well for obvious reasons. So  _of course_  he didn't tell Sherlock anything and instead spouted some rubbish about visiting Harry, and now Sherlock is understandably peeved and it's all just a mess, because who even knows if these pesky feelings will go away?

 

A cabin announcement interrupts him from wallowing any further. Apparently the combination of several missing passengers and a minor setback in routine maintenance will delay take-off by half an hour.

 

It must not be John's lucky day.

 

Boredom's quickly starting to set in. Unfortunately for him, he hasn't brought anything to help him occupy the time. He'd been in too much of a hurry to leave the flat, wanting to get out before his resolve crumbled, or he might've done something stupid like crawl into his flatmate's bed to seduce him.

 

He checks his watch. 9:34 am. A certain consulting detective is probably waking up in London right about now, all tousled and sleep-eyed. Probably irritable too, without John to make Earl Grey the way he likes it.

 

God, he misses Sherlock already. 

 

John texts,  **Bored. Must be contagious. You've infected me _,_** and presses send. 

 

He can already hear Sherlock's reply in his mind:  _Ennui is a state of mind, John, not a disease_.

 

 _Well, perhaps contagion is via telepathic means. It's certainly your doing, somehow,_  John would respond. They could then proceed to snark back and forth. And little by little, things might just go back to normal again, somehow.

 

What John doesn't expect is the reply he actually receives, two minutes later. Instead of a text message, Sherlock's sent a photo attachment. 

 

Of himself. Naked. 

 

A gobsmacked John stares in utter disbelief.

 

The picture, it's a self-shot. One of Sherlock standing in front of their large bathroom mirror, with his right hand holding the camera-phone to capture the moment while his left grips his erect cock. His pale neck is bared to the viewer's gaze, his mouth gasping, his eyes lidded in pleasure.

 

John's brain implodes.

 

His mouth feels like it's both watering and dry at the same time, and he's so hard that it hurts. He also can't tear his gaze away from the screen. Not that he wants to, at all. 

In the back of his mind he's absently aware this must mean Sherlock  _knows_ , that he's figured it out. The implications of this...whatever they are...must be important--

 

His text alert chimes, derailing that thread of thought.

 

**I came while thinking of you. - SH**

 

John refrains from palming himself, with great effort. His arousal is too prominent for him to walk to the toilet to take care of it, and he can't bring himself off because a potential seatmate could arrive at any moment.  _This_  is the definition of torture.

 

Aching for release, he squeezes his eyes shut in agony.

 

When he finally opens them, Sherlock Holmes is sitting next to him.

   

* * *

 

If John Watson were ten years older, he'd be having a heart attack right now. As it is, he feels dangerously close to hyperventilating.

 

"I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare," he mutters desperately, hopefully. The corners of Sherlock's lips crease upward.

 

"Afraid not," he drawls. 

 

Good Lord, that voice. John clenches his jaw. He focuses on the seat in front of him, willing himself into stoicism. 

 

"Aren't you happy to see me, John?" Sherlock glances down at John's lap.  "Hmm. I believe you are."

 

He loosens his tie and begins unfastening his cuffs, while John watches helplessly. Slowly, tantalisingly, Sherlock rolls up his sleeves, exposing lean, taut forearms. 

 

"What the hell are you doing?" John hisses desperately, as Sherlock leans closer and reaches for him.

 

"Taking care of you." One hand snakes up John's thigh. The other slaps his wrists away. "Not that you deserve it."

 

"So, I put the pieces together last night-- took me long enough, really-- and I was planning to have a little chat to you about it this morning," he continues, deftly unfastening John's trousers and slipping inside. 

 

_Ohgodohgodohgod._

 

John experiences a sensation of agonising pleasure-- ten glorious seconds of it-- when Sherlock’s fingers still to a punishing halt. There’s a cabin announcement announcing take-off. 

 

“Sorry, John.” Sherlock withdraws his hand. 

 

It  _really_  wasn’t John’s lucky day. “You’re a tease.”

 

“I follow through on my promises. It'll only be two minutes, the wait won't kill you,” Sherlock says. Rather hypocritically, John thinks.

 

“Yes,  _it will_ ,” he mutters. Sherlock pats his knee consolingly. Well, it was meant to be a consoling gesture-- frankly, it just exacerbated John's sexual frustration. “RIP John Hamish Watson, they'll say. Died 2012, cause of death: vasocongestion.”

 

“You’re a doctor. You know that’s medically impossible. In theory.” The bastard has the nerve to smirk. John has a violent urge, borne out of lust and irritation, to slam his flatmate against the nearest surface and-- 

 

Not the time. Instead, he fastens his seatbelt and prompts Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock huffs like a drama queen but complies.

   

* * *

 

The plane is circling the runway now. They wait.

 

"So. Checked your phone lately?" Sherlock asks conversationally. 

 

John manages an affirmative.

 

"Good. Now you know that I know all there is to know. Why didn’t you tell me?" Sherlock accuses.

 

Startled, he lashes back. “Wasn’t as if I could. This is  _you_  we’re talking about.”

 

An eyebrow lifts dangerously. “Are you insinuating something?”

 

“It means that you’re Sherlock Holmes. Married to your work. You don’t do feelings!” John bursts out. 

 

“Of course I experience emotions!” protests Sherlock. He sounds mortally offended. "I am not a  _robot_."

 

“Emotions of  _love_. God, I’m so in love with you, and everything’s fucked up.”

 

Shit. He can't believe he said that out loud.

 

John sneaks a peek. Sherlock’s doing an impression of an ice statue, with his expression frozen on “shock”.

 

“I didn’t want to tell you like this...or at all. But it’s true,” John says miserably. “I am.” He looks away.

 

The passengers in the middle section nearest to them are avidly watching their little exchange. A romance novel-clutching housewife gives him a thumbs-up. John’s not really one to be making scenes in public, and normally he’d be mortified beyond belief.

 

Right now, he doesn’t give a whit. Something else has occurred to him--

 

“All of a sudden you've decided to play some-- sex game with me. Why, Sherlock?” he demands.

 

Wordlessly, Sherlock looks John in the eyes and guides John’s hand to rest over his own heart, an unspoken  _this is why_. 

 

And they’re flying. Literally-- the plane has propelled itself into the air now. They’re ascending rapidly, up into the fluffy white clouds. John’s head is spinning from happiness and also physical disorientation.

 

“Not a game,” Sherlock murmurs at last. “Real.”

 

“I thought you said love is a dangerous weakness,” John’s forehead furrows.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock admits. “But I trust you. You are necessary to my existence. Fundamental for my continued happiness.”

 

“And the sexting?” John asks.

 

"An attempt to entice you to return. When I woke up this morning to find that you'd abandoned me..." Sherlock pauses, looking so grave, so devastated that John vows never to be the reason Sherlock wears that expression again. Ever. 

 

Before John knows it he’s kissing Sherlock. It’s breathless and desperate and clumsy, the angle is funny-- but it’s perfect. It really is.

   

* * *

   

They finally break apart to the sound of loud catcalls and whistles. John’s ears burn. He ducks his head, trying to look inconspicuous, while a flight attendant glides down the aisle hushing the passengers. 

 

Sherlock rubs his temples. “My eardrums popped during take-off.”

 

“Idiot. Take these,” John reaches for the air sickness pills he’s stashed in his carry-on. He adds, before Sherlock can sulk or complain any further: “If you’re good, I’ll let you cop another feel in the loo.”

 

Sherlock snatches them out of his hand. “Meet you there.”

 

John enjoys the view of his delectable backside strutting down the aisle. He grins.

 

The day’s not looking too bad after all.

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2012 round of Vacationthon.
> 
> It was initially based on annawhite16's general prompt #1 ("Characters are headed somewhere for vacation but end up somewhere else so they have to make the best of that") but has probably been bastardised beyond recognition.
> 
> A big thank you to H, my beta.


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